


Spit-Shine

by witchoil



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Discipline, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, Other, dark!Poe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchoil/pseuds/witchoil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are a TIE Fighter pilot just trying to do your damn job, but Lt. General Dameron seems to have it out for you today and it’s about to get messy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spit-Shine

**Author's Note:**

> Ever wanted to get your neck stepped on by a very evil version of the best damn pilot in the galaxy? Then boy howdy is this ever the place for you! The description says non-con elements, but I'd slot this more in dub-con territory. Also as a general warning, it's a bit rough and not in the "~their tongues battled for dominance~" sort of way.
> 
> As with my last self-insert, this OC is not gendered but there are references to dfab anatomy bc that's what I know. Shoot me a comment if you'd like to see something different/want an edited version.
> 
> Inspired in part by these gifs of Oscar looking like Lucifer the Temptor on the X-Men press tour: http://harleyhquinn.tumblr.com/post/138294202817/x

“Unit TZ-2420,” the officer – Lt. General Dameron, if your memory served, the one with the square jaw and shining black hair – barked at you across the hangar.

Your head snapped around as though you’d been slapped. You knew that tone, announcing the displeasure of the TIE fleet’s prodigy Lieutenant General, but were lucky enough never to have had it used on you in the past. “Yes, Lieutenant General, sir?”

“Report to debrief room 568 as soon as you’re finished taking down the damages on your craft.” There was distaste on his face, written as plainly as his arrogance. A curling lip, the dimpled crease in his cheek that it left.

“Yes, Lieutenant General, sir.”

“Don’t dawdle, _trooper._ ”

Among the pilots, this passed for an insult, and it made you bristle. You weren’t the top of the pack, no, not like Tix or Clip with their 99th percentile bullshit, but you weren’t a bad pilot by any measure, sitting no lower than the 85th even on a bad day. Your commanding officer knew this, and by extension Dameron should, too. It wasn’t your fault if the Resistance had gotten some good intelligence and had the jump on you – it wasn’t your job to man the scanners. But he must have sensed the sour look you gave through your posture because a second later he was tossing another insult your way.

“Might as well do _one_ thing right today, don’t you think?”

You grit your teeth under your mask and resolved to do a thorough check of your fighter, regardless of his orders, give yourself time to let the shame subside and mentally prepare yourself for whatever bullshit verbal lashing he surely had in store.

“Yes, sir.”

His frown flickered, curling into a full sneer for a second before he sauntered off, sparing not a single extra word for you and you turned back to your gunner to finish maintenance.

“Shit, Zees, that sounded bad,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it, Kees, he’s a prick. We already knew that, nothin’ new.”

“Yeah, but either way, I wouldn’t want to have to meet him for a debrief.”

“Honestly, after the day we’ve had, I don’t give a shit. Hand me the holopad, will you? I want to look at our readouts.”

She offered up the holopad with the numbers and, _space_ , you didn’t think you’d sustained _that_ much damage. TK-2411 noted the tightening of your shoulders as you perused the readout and clapped a black-gloved hand on your back.

She said quietly, “You understand my worry, now, Zee?”

“Aw, fuck, Kees.”

\---

On the walk to the debrief room, you fought with yourself over which version of your rehearsed speech you were going to launch into. Would it be the defiant hot-shot pilot? You didn’t perform poorly, after all, took out at least three X-Wings alone and crippled one of their bombers, sending it away in a halo of smoke and sputtering flames. _So_ _here’s your numbers, sir, but frankly fuck off and let me do my job._ Maybe. You knew this was how he was as an ensign when he was still crawling his way up the ranks, proving that he wasn’t as unscrupulous as his defector status might suggest. No, from what you knew he didn’t tolerate such behavior from his pilots now, which only figured. They never gave you as much grace as they took when they were in your shoes. Greedy pricks.

No, it was safer to grovel. Best not to test his temper, which was more on the side of “deadly” than “showy”. You thought of TY-2680, when he and his gunner let the defective trooper, FN-something, escape to Jakku with that tiny girl from the Resistance. At least Kylo Ren didn’t go around spacing pilots to teach the cadets a lesson.

Any last thought of resistance or anger you may have had evaporated when you keyed into the debrief room and found it completely empty aside from Lt. General Dameron. The word _shit_ echoed faintly in the back of your head. The sweat under the neck of your flight suit began to cool and stick, sending shivers of discomfort slithering down your back. Or perhaps that was the look on his face?

The sneer was full-force, and it reached all the way up to his half-open eyes, gone red at the edges. It was obvious he hadn’t been sleeping, or that he’d been dosing himself pretty heavily with spice. With how things were going for the Order these days, it was probably both.

Despite the weary look, he was noticeably keyed up. Half-lidded as his eyes were, they were drilling straight into your helmet, and you were so damn grateful for the protocol that let you keep it on.

“You’re late, pilot.” He bit the words off sharply, looking you over with a disapproving leer.

“Apologies, sir, I wanted to be sure of the accuracy of my damages report.”

He sniffed and gestured behind you. “Close the door, pilot. And give me your report.”

You pressed a shaking palm to the pad next to the door and stood at attention, preparing for your speech. _The damage wasn’t as bad as we’d thought. The repairs necessary are vital, but they won’t take much time. Against the records of available materials, nothing that needs to be requisitioned will need to be shipped in from off-base._ Numbers, part names, blah blah blah.

“Well, sir—”

“No,” he cut you off with a shake of his head, running a hand through his dark hair, shot through with grey near his temples. “No, not verbally, just give me the holopad.”

“Yes, sir,” you mumbled as you crossed to the table to his right where you set the holopad down. You began to draw back when his hand shot out and caught your wrist and you nearly cried out. It fucking _hurt_ how hard he’d grabbed you, like the bones inside were grinding against one another. “Sir,” you choked out, the _please_ not voiced but very heavily implied. What the fuck was his game?

“Do you know why I asked you here to debrief, pilot?” His face remained twisted in his displeasure, but otherwise impassive. He wasn’t even looking at you, just staring straight ahead at the door.

“No, sir.”

An eyebrow arched slowly. His face turned to yours and if he hadn’t been holding on to your arm you probably would have fallen flat on your ass.

“Yes you do.”

 He released your wrist and you prodded at it tenderly with the fingers of your left hand, terrified that he’d sprained it. Flying was going to hurt for a while if he had, but you wouldn’t have a choice in the matter.

“Take your helmet off, pilot.”

“Isn’t that against protocol, sir?”

“I’d say it would be much worse to disobey a direct order from a superior, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir.”

He rolled his lips in an expectant grimace, the order implicitly re-proffered. You pressed the release latches and the buttons that disconnected the air intake hoses from the back of your suit. Tucking the helmet under your arm, you cast your gaze downward, terrified of meeting his eyes. Didn’t some of them take that sort of thing as a challenge? Or was that bantha? Not much difference in the end, you figured.

“On the table.”

You hated the thought of having to cross so close to him again, but an order was an order. The helm made a hollow plastic sound when you dropped it and it echoed through the room, mixing with the uncomfortably loud noise of your heart thudding in your chest. You were beginning to get a sense of the kind of meeting this was when that same cruel hand shot up and gripped under your chin, fingernails digging into the flesh just above your jawbone and eliciting an uncomfortable gasp from you.

“We can’t be sustaining this kind of damage on the regular, ensign. You know that.”

“Sir, I know that it seems I failed perform at the level expected of me, but—”

The spit caught you off-guard, landing in a spray that concentrated in the inner corner of your left eye, and you couldn’t help the look of disgust that rippled across your face in response. A choked sound crawled up your throat and fell miserably out of your lips.

“No excuses, ensign. Do you understand me, yes or no?”

The gob of spit dripped down the side of your nose and you became aware that very soon it was going to cross your mouth. “Yes.”

“Yes, _sir_ , ensign.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Really? I’m not convinced.”

“Honestly, sir, I understand. I need to perform better, sir.”

“No more disappointing your general?”

“No, sir.”

“Show me.”

Your stomach dropped at the words and you thought of passing it off like you didn’t understand. Like you didn’t recognize _that_ tone, scraping the bottom of his vocal register like it was mining for Ionite. But instead, you froze.

And, oh, did you pay for your hesitation. The hand disappeared from your face ( _at last_ ) and dropped back, the left coming up to take its place and land heavy on your shoulder as the right reared back and, fuck, you realized in the nanoseconds as it happened, you’d never actually taken a hit straight to the gut before.

It was pathetic, what it did to you, and something low in your stomach tingled traitorously at the thought. You fell hard to your knees and tumbled to your side, lying prone on the cold floor of the debrief room as you clutched at where he’d struck you, groaning thinly.

“I said,”—here a foot, in an immaculately cleaned boot, shining and black as your helmet the day it was issued to you, crept up to nudge at your face—“show me.”

You rolled onto your back and opened your eyes just as the toe of that boot rose above your throat and came down _pressing_ just more than gently. You sputtered madly, the pressure causing your larynx to shift and pop in your neck, trying to say something, anything so that he’d let you up.

“What was that, ensign?”

A wheeze.

“Would you like to get up?”

“Ye-yes, sir” you said, thinly.

The boot lifted, magnanimous and gentle as it came back to rest soundlessly next to its partner. “On your knees.”

You obeyed, coming face to face with the front of his slacks, but Lt. General Dameron raised an eyebrow again, dissatisfied. Your breath rattled in your chest, but you managed to squeeze the words out again, breathing them against his uniform beneath which you could clearly tell he was at least half-hard. “Yes, sir.”

“Better,” he said smoothly, running his gloved hand over the top of your head in mocking praise. With the mix of fear and treacherous anticipation, your mouth begin to water and you became suddenly aware of your tongue. Your nails scrabbled over the hard black armor on your knees, stomach doing flips as he threaded his fingers into your hair and _pulled_ , slowly, slowly, slowly, until you were looking up into his downturned face instead of directly into his tented uniform slacks. Your mouth hung parted, dumbly, and you swear you saw him shudder at the sight.

“Show me,” he said again, more insistently this time, less controlled, and released you with a shake.

You swallowed back your nerves as you brought trembling fingers up to his hips, searching for the buttons to his fly. He groaned as you worked it open and brushed against the warm bulge underneath. You looked up, anxious and expectant, as you mouthed against his cock through the thin fabric of his briefs, and he bit his bottom lip, still somehow managing to look equally as disgusted as he was aroused. He twitched under your lips and tongue when you hooked cold fingers into the waistband of his smalls and nearly gasped when you pulled them down.

You thought you might start slow before you took him completely into your mouth – lick a hot stripe up from base to tip, then kiss lazily at the head – but Dameron was impatient. The feeling of having your head pulled sharply back made you gasp at the same time that it sent a shock straight to your clit, and he took advantage of your open mouth, burying himself almost to the hilt.

You gagged and swallowed thickly around Dameron’s cock, taking a moment to breathe as you became accustomed to the feeling. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his slacks and you hummed, earning another groan and a twitch of his hips in the process. Then, much to your surprise, he released you.

You pulled back slowly, swiping your tongue back and forth across the underside of his length and sucking lightly on the way up. You raised a hand to snake around the base as you sank back down, but Dameron gripped your wrist hard – you winced – and gave a disapproving grunt.

“No hands,” he said, voice still low but strung taught from effort. He fought another groan and went on, “keep–just—behind your back.”

You obeyed, leaning forward on knees that were growing sorer by the second. You took your time, slid all the way down to the base of his cock, pulled up, then let yourself fall back down with an obscene wet sound. The longer you went – up and down, tongue swirling under and around, cheeks hollowing with effort – the easier it became. Saliva and precome slicked the way, mixing in your mouth and down your chin with each retraction, then dripping in long threads onto your armor below.

As you came back up, you let your tongue follow, pulling back and swiping over the center of his head and you could have sworn he whined at the feeling. His hips stuttered on your next downstroke and there, again, were the hands on your head, fingers pressing greedily into your scalp.

This time he held you firmly in place as his hips came back and you _groaned_ in expectation. The first thrust was uncontrolled and desperate and you nearly gagged, but by the third or fourth or fifth he settled into a more reasonable pace. You let your eyes fall closed as he fucked into your mouth, and orders be damned, brought your hands back up to brace against his thighs, which he didn’t seem to mind all that much if his twitching cock were anything to go by.

He gasped and whined continuously as you rode it out, swallowing every few seconds and humming and moaning when you couldn’t. The sound of your general falling apart above you sent shivers through your whole body, and you could feel that you were as wet as the mess of your mouth, cursing how complicated your flight armor was. No matter how badly you might have wanted to touch yourself, there was no way on earth you would be able to make that happen before he was finished. So you made do with the imagining of it, clenching desperately around nothing.

Dameron’s thrusting became erratic and hard, each thrust causing the head of his cock to bounce off the back of your throat. And this time you did gag, but if anything it only spurred him on, his cries reaching a new and more fevered pitch. You sucked hard as he pulled out and he shouted, coming hard into your mouth and throat.

He groaned like he’d just been hit and pulled you by your front locks off of his cock. “Swallow,” he said thickly, tongue peeking out as he licked over his lips.

You obeyed, licking hesitantly at your swollen, come-slick lips.

“Can I count on you, pilot,” he said, chest expanding and contracting with each deep breath, “to take this little talk to heart?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go. We’re done here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, pilot, clean your armor when you get back to the barracks. You’re a fucking mess.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm still inexperienced at writing _really_ explicit content so encouragement/comments are absolutely welcome. 
> 
> Now if you'll excuse me, I believe this is the part where I descend into hell to atone for my sins.


End file.
